Writing A Novel Is Like Childbirth: Once

You're Not A Sucker. You're Just Nice. You Give People The Benefit Of The Doubt.

After All With Me & Marshall, It Had Never Been About Words Or Conversation, Where There Was Too Much To Be Risked Or Lost. Here, Though, In The Quiet Pressed Against Each Other, This Felt Familiar To Me. And It Was Nice To Let Someone Get Close Again, Even If It Was Just For A Little While.

Needing Was So Easy: It Came Naturally, Like Breathing. Being Needed By Someone Else, Though, That Was The Hard Part. But As With Giving Help And Accepting It, We Had To Do Both To Be Made Complete-like Links Overlapping To Form A Chain, Or A Lock Finding The Right Key.

I Hadn't Said Goodbye. It Had Been Easier, Like Always, To Just Disappear, Sparing Myself The Messy Details Of Another Farewell. Now, My Fingers Hovered Over My Track Pad, Moving The Cursor Down To His Comment Section Before I Stopped Myself. What Was The Point? Anything I Said Now Would Only Be An Afterthought. Elizabeth Who Goes By Her Middle Name

Morgan Sighed. "i," She Announced, "am So Pathetic." "you Are Not," I Said. "i Am." She Went Over And Straightened The Cling Wrap, Corner To Corner. "do You Know How Many Times I've Brought In Devilled Eggs? This Is, Like, The Only Time I Haven't Been Sobbing And That's Only 'cause I Cried All Night. And Norman," She Said, Her Voice Rising To A Wail, "sweet Norman, Always Just Acts So Surprised To See The Eggs, And Pleased, And He Never, Once, Has Ever Acted Like He Knew What They Meant."